Meet me in Malmö: The first Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) (8 page)

‘All right. Ewan is easier.’

‘And what shall I call you?’

‘Inspector Sundström is fine.’ He might be useful but that was as far as she would let things go. The last journalist she had befriended for professional, mutual ‘off-the-record’ information had tried eventually to get her into bed. Sleeping with the enemy wasn’t her style. That source of information dried up immediately.

He grinned broadly. ‘I understand, Inspector Sundström. Can I go?’

‘Of course.’

He stood up. So did Anita. For a moment she thought he was going to reach across and shake her hand. He smiled at her. ‘It amazes me that all your CID people dress so casually over here. Back home, all our detectives wear suits and ties.’

‘I know. I found it a shock when I was with the Met.’

‘This is better.’ He nodded to himself approvingly and turned towards the door.

‘One other thing,’ Anita said. He turned back to face her. ‘Have you ever done military service?’

He laughed. ‘Me? You’re joking.’ He indicated his body with a downward flourish of his hands. ‘Do I look the military type?’

Anita watched him standing by the door, the slightly tubby figure. She thought that he had probably been more muscular in the days before he let himself go, but she still couldn’t see him in uniform, and she found herself smiling at the thought. ‘No, not really.’

‘Besides, I’m a professional coward.’

Ewan was glad to get out of the police headquarters. He felt a mixture of relief and suppressed excitement - relief that he wasn’t a suspect and excitement because he had got hold of Inspector Sundström’s personal phone number. She was a handsome woman and despite her rather brusque manner he was warming to her. He tried to imagine her without her clothes on but, disappointingly, he couldn’t get further down than her shoulders. When she had allowed herself to smile her whole face had lit up. The eyes behind the spectacles sparkled momentarily. The mouth had opened invitingly. And he had realized as they were talking that he wanted to see her again. That was why he had come up with the ridiculous idea that he could get some vital information out of Mick. She had seemed interested by the notion. The trouble was that he thought he had little chance of getting anything useful out of his old friend.

He crossed over the canal and walked quickly down Östragatan. The dark sky above promised more snow but the weather was having difficulty deciding whether to go all out for proper winter or just to stick to being antisocially cold. It was ridiculous even thinking about Sundström. Why should she be remotely interested in an overweight journalist from Britain who wasn’t very good with women in the first place? He was sure that she regarded him as little more than an irritant who had stumbled into their investigation. The sooner he was discounted, the better. He knew nothing about her. She was probably married for starters. Someone as good-looking as that was bound to be. Or, if not, probably had some stud of a boyfriend. By the time he recrossed the canal in front of the station he had convinced himself he was being a berk. He was simply falling for the fantasy of the beautiful Swedish woman; one to which the average British male was highly susceptible. Yet he still felt a tingle of pleasure as he put her name and number into the contacts section of his mobile phone.

Ewan had never seen Mick like this. Admittedly, he had never before witnessed him within forty-eight hours of his wife being murdered, but he was really agitated. Bengt Valquist wasn’t helping either. Here really was a nervous man. He continually played with his spectacles. Ewan wished he would stop it. Ewan had ordered up a bottle of whisky in the hopes that it would calm them down, but that hadn’t helped either of them. Valquist didn’t touch spirits. The two men had slipped in through some back entrance of the hotel to avoid been seen, which Ewan thought was a tad melodramatic.

At first Mick had apologized again for hitting him. But that wasn’t the reason that he wanted to speak to him. Mick took a gulp of whisky and then proceeded to pour himself another glass. Ewan wondered whether Brian would pick up on the bottle when he handed in his expenses.

‘I want your advice, I suppose,’ said Mick.

Ewan was taken aback. Hardly anyone had ever asked for his advice except on which real ale was worth a try. And Mick wouldn’t have lowered himself to ask anything of him when they were at university. In those days Mick knew all the answers.

‘If I can help,’ was the only reply Ewan could come out with.

‘I, or we, really,’ Mick said glancing across to Valquist who was fiddling with his damned spectacles again, ‘need an outside view on something. Something that may be behind Malin’s murder.’ Ewan was intrigued. He sat on his bed and listened as Mick wore out the wooden flooring.

‘Malin thought she had been followed recently. There was this guy who kept sending her love letters, signing himself H. When she didn’t reply, they got a bit more threatening.’ Ewan wanted to take notes because this was useful to his story for Brian, but that wouldn’t have looked right. It was not that sort of conversation.

‘I’ve told the police about him, but we think it might be someone totally different. Someone connected with a documentary we were putting together.’

‘Is this the hush-hush project you hinted at in Edinburgh?’

‘Yes. But then I didn’t know that it would be this dangerous.’ Mick took another drink of whisky from the glass Ewan had found in the bathroom. ‘How much do you know about the murder of Olof Palme?’

‘Nothing really. I remember vaguely that the Swedish prime minister was killed, but that’s about it. Can’t even remember when it was.’

‘Olof Palme was shot in a Stockholm street late on February the twenty-eighth, 1986.’ This information was presented by Valquist, who had now put his spectacles back on. ‘He died from his wounds shortly after he was taken to the hospital. He had been to the movies with his wife. She was wounded but she did not die.’

‘Did they catch who did it?’ asked Ewan.

‘That’s just it,’ answered Mick. ‘They didn’t. It was a lone gunman who attacked them. They had no bodyguards at the time. The strange thing is that the visit to the Grand Cinema was fairly last minute, so whoever was behind it couldn’t have planned the assassination in that location in advance.’

Valquist took up the story. ‘The police arrested a right-wing extremist called Victor Gunnarsson, but he was let go. After three years they arrested Christer Pettersson. He was a small criminal. Not an important one, I mean. Alcoholic. Palme’s wife identified him. He was tried and…what’s the word in English?’

‘Convicted,’ Mick supplied.

‘Yes. Convicted. But after three years he was let go from the prison.’

‘Pettersson’s appeal succeeded because they never found the murder weapon,’ continued Mick. ‘There were doubts over Lisbet Palme’s evidence and, most importantly, there didn’t seem to be any motive. I don’t think anybody seriously thinks it was him.’

‘But someone must have done it?’ Ewan was enjoying this. He could feel a conspiracy theory coming on. And a conspiracy theory would give him plenty to write about.

‘Over the years the finger has been pointed in all sorts of directions. There was a Kurdish group called the PPK, the Baader-Meinhoff group and not that long ago a book came out claiming it was do with trade links between the Indians and the Bofors armaments people over here. But the most convincing theory seemed to be the one that it was the South Africans. Palme had quite an international reputation for supporting causes like the Palestinians; he spoke up about Nicaragua and El Salvador. However, his strongest connection was with the anti-apartheid movement. He was an outspoken critic of South Africa and knew many of the officials from the ANC, like Oliver Tambo. In fact, Tambo and lots of other activists attended a keynote speech given by Palme at an event called the Swedish People’s Parliament Against Apartheid in Stockholm. It was exactly a week before he was killed. A number of years later, a South African policeman called Eugene de Kock said that Palme had been killed because he was an opponent of apartheid and Sweden was backing the ANC. De Kock even named the killer. A guy called Craig Williamson. That opened a can of worms and at least another two South African-connected names were thrown into the melting pot. Swedish police investigators did go over to South Africa but couldn’t substantiate de Kock’s claims.’

‘So it’s still a mystery?’

‘Well, we thought so until Bengt was approached last year. It was known that I was interested in making a new movie on the subject. I had come up with some idea based on the Russians trying to get rid of him. A Cold War version. When no one knows who did it you can come up with virtually anything.’

Ewan watched Mick intently. He was utterly intrigued by the story now. ‘So who approached you?’

Valquist took off his spectacles again. ‘I got a phone call. Mysterious at first. He had heard about Mick’s plans. He says he can tell Mick the real truth. But he would only speak to Mick.’

‘So, I spoke to him. Then I met him at a secret location in Stockholm. He was all very cagy. After that, we had a number of meetings, all in secret. He claimed he had worked for Säpo in the 1980s.’

‘Who are…whatever?’

‘Säkerhetspolsen. Säpo for short. The Swedish security police. According to our informant, it was a far right-wing element within Säpo which was behind the killing.’

‘You mean Palme’s own police?’ Ewan whispered incredulously.

‘Basically. Despite its reputation for being a liberal country, Sweden has a strong right-wing tradition. Sweden may have been neutral during the war, but there were an awful lot of Nazi sympathizers around. A number even joined up and fought with the Germans, especially on the Russian front.’

‘I never knew that.’

‘Oh, yeah. Norwegians and Danes, too. Anyway, this rogue group were horrified by Palme’s stance on a number of issues, particularly backing black South Africans, and supporting left-wing regimes around the world. They thought he was a real liability. He was taking Sweden in the wrong direction. So they decided he had to go. And who better than Säpo to monitor the prime minister’s every move. They could react quickly to any situation. Palme played into their hands because he had no bodyguards that night. That’s the sort of thing they would know about immediately. And who better to cover their tracks than the people put in charge of trying to catch the killer?’

‘It sounds incredible.’

‘I thought so too. But the more I talked to him, the more it made sense. It was such a bombshell that Bengt and I decided it had to be made into a documentary and not a movie. That would carry real weight.’ Mick reflected for a moment. ‘Malin wasn’t keen on the idea.’

Ewan stood up to stretch his legs. ‘But I don’t understand what this has to do with— ’

‘My contact said that some of the group were still around. He was pretty sure that included the man who had actually carried out the killing. We think they may have got wind of what we’re doing. We’ve been talking about it all last night and we believe that maybe they got to Malin to warn me off. Who knows, they may even have been after me and she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. She was certainly thought she was being followed. Were they monitoring her movements?’

Ewan poured himself a whisky. ‘It’s a funny thing. That woman inspector - the one with the nice arse - she asked me if I had been in the military.’ Mick and Valquist exchanged glances. ‘So maybe the strangulation was done by someone who knew how to kill quickly and efficiently.’

Mick sat down and held his head in his hands. ‘Christ.’

This was too much for Valquist, who disappeared into the bathroom.

‘Why are you telling me all this?’ asked Ewan.

Mick looked up. The strain was evident in his features as he rubbed his unshaven chin. ‘I needed to talk to someone who had no connection with Sweden. I know we have…a history. But we go back a long way. You can look on as an outsider. Bengt’s too close. He wants me to tell the police.’

‘I would have thought that was obvious.’

‘I don’t trust them. Some may have connections with these ex-Säpo guys. I’m not sure what I’m dealing with.’

Ewan offered Mick a top-up. This time Mick held up his hand in refusal. ‘I don’t think you’ve got a choice. The most important thing is to find out who…you know. And if there’s even the remotest possibility of some loony ex-secret service guy out there, you might not be safe. You’ve got to tell them. ’

‘You’re right. They want to talk to me again anyhow.’

A thought came into Ewan’s head. ‘The lady cop. Sundström. I can’t believe she’s some Swedish Eva Braun. Now the big bugger who’s leading the investigation - I can see him in jackboots. He’s fatter than Hermann Goering. Look, why not speak to her first? I’ll ring her and see if I can get her to come over here. Explain everything. Then let her decide what’s best.’

‘Ok,’ said Mick, but without any conviction.

Ewan got out his mobile. He keyed in the name Sundström. This was fantastic. He was killing two birds with one stone. He had an excuse to be very useful to the attractive Inspector Sundström – and he had just been handed a great story.

Moberg had exploded. He raged that she knew damned well that he wanted to be there when they next talked to Roslyn. Instead she had slunk off to the journalist’s hotel behind his back. It was totally unprofessional. He was running the investigation and he wouldn’t tolerate any maverick behaviour. She was amazed that he didn’t add ‘particularly by a woman‘. But he did throw in a threat. ‘Do anything like that again and I’ll have you processing parking tickets down the road!’ Anita waited for him to calm down.

‘Roslyn thinks you might be a Nazi.’

She knew it would set him off again, but she enjoyed the moment. After he had called in Nordlund, Anita went through Roslyn’s story before telling them that she had Roslyn in her office because he was probably safer off in the Polishus than wandering around Malmö or Lund. At least the tale had silenced Moberg, whose expression had become more incredulous by the minute. He didn’t speak until well after she had finished.

‘It’s a load of horseshit, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t know,’ replied Anita. ‘One thing for sure is that Roslyn seems to believe it. He thinks his life’s in danger.’

‘It has a ring of truth,’ observed Nordlund. ‘We’ve all had our suspicions.’

‘I know. Christ, every crackpot has had a theory and a lot have made money out of it. Why should Roslyn be any different?’

Anita shrugged. ‘The problem is, whatever we may think, can we afford to ignore it? If we dismiss it and then Roslyn gets killed, then we’re all in the shit. If people had done their job properly then Mijailović wouldn’t have been on the streets to be able to murder Anna Lindh.’

Moberg pulled a face. He could see his career going down the toilet faster than a flushed fag. ‘Has he come up with the name of his informant?’

‘”Deep Throat.”’ Anita smirked.

‘You’re taking the piss!’

‘No, honestly, that’s how Roslyn referred to him. He thinks he’s uncovered something bigger than Watergate.’

‘For fuck’s sake. Well, I’ll get the name out of him even if I have to bounce the wanker off the cell walls to get it. If there is a grain of truth in this then we’ve got some very experienced guys out there to deal with.’

‘Erik, there are a couple of things that might add weight to his story.’ Nordlund had Moberg’s full attention. ‘The method of killing certainly fits. Quick, clean operation. No mess. An execution by gun would have at least given us more to go on than we have here. No bullets, no blood, no sound. ’

‘And secondly?’

‘If the body was left sitting on the sofa, as we now suspect, it was deliberate. We’ve come to the conclusion it was a message – or, if not a message as such, certainly a startling way for Roslyn to come in and find his wife. Presumably, it was meant to be him who found her.’

Moberg scratched his stomach. Anita realized that this was a nervous gesture and not a sign that he was hungry yet again. He turned to her. ‘And the journalist definitely found the body on the floor?’

‘According to his statement.’

‘Right, Henrik, we’ll go and have a little chat with him and if I believe him then we’ll have to sort out a safe house or hotel room and keep him under wraps. This case is not getting any better.'

‘Brian, you’re not going to believe it, but I’ve got an amazing story here.’ Ewan was astonished at his own excitement.

Brian’s response was a mixture of cautious disbelief. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah. Dropped into my lap by Mick Roslyn.’

‘Something we can print?’ The scepticism still hadn’t left his voice.

‘Not yet, because he’s only just told the police and they’ll probably keep it under wraps for the time being.’ Inspector Sundström’s threat was still ringing in his ears:
If a word of this gets out before we’ve investigated, my boss will have your balls for breakfast. He’s very big and very hungry.

‘Can you tell me?’

‘It’s complicated, but Mick thinks it’s tied up with a documentary he’s doing on the assassination of Olof Palme. He thinks—’

‘Who?’

‘Olof Palme, the Swedish prime minister. 1986. You must remember?’

There was a pause at the other end of the line.

‘Yes. That’s right. I remember. Dead liberal guy.’

‘Well, he turned out to be a dead liberal after some bloke shot him in a Stockholm street. They never found the killer. Anyway, to cut a long story short, Mick thinks that his digging into the story has led to his wife’s murder. It’s all tied up with the Swedish security police. We can’t go public yet and we’ll need confirmation first. But it could be a massive international story.’

‘God, yes. Could be huge. Brilliant. Keep me in touch.’

‘Will do.’

‘Oh, by the way. Have you done that travel piece for Henry?’

‘I’ll finish it tomorrow morning and email it to him by lunchtime.’

Of course, he hadn’t even started the travel piece yet, but he would go back to the café in Möllevågen and write it over a couple of coffees. And now Brian was happy and would leave him in peace for a while.

After he put the phone down he went over to the nearly empty bottle of whisky and poured himself the remains. It had been quite a couple of hours. First he had phoned Inspector Sundström. She had been surprised to hear from him and wasn’t sure whether he was serious at first. However, she had come across. Valquist had left before her arrival, saying that his girlfriend, the actress Tilda Tegner, was coming back to Lund from Stockholm to be with him during this difficult time. The conversation between Inspector Sundström and Mick had been in Swedish. Despite having no idea what they were saying, Ewan had watched Sundström in fascination. She was a striking woman. The voice that had virtually no trace of an accent when she was speaking English seemed to be guttural when speaking in her native Swedish; quite harsh to the ear but, from her lips, rather sexy. Or maybe it was just that he had a thing about women in glasses speaking in a foreign language.

When Mick had gone to the bathroom to freshen up before heading off to the police headquarters with the inspector, Ewan pointed out to her that it was he who had been responsible for making Mick come to the police. And that it was his idea that Mick talked to her first.

‘It was a sensible suggestion.’

‘So I’ve done you a favour. If you have any information that would be useful to me then…’ He handed her a piece of paper on which he had written his mobile phone number in anticipation of just such an opportunity.

She took the paper without looking at it and popped it into her pocket. He wanted to take advantage of the favourable impression he hoped he had created and find a reason to see her again. And he really
did
want to see her again. ‘Would it be out of the question to meet? Maybe for a drink. I don’t know. Give me a chance to fill you in on some background stuff on Mick.’

‘If we need to talk further we can do that at the Polishus.’

‘Is that a “no” to the drink?’

Moberg lumbered grumpily towards the commissioner’s office. After a long discussion with Roslyn, he wasn’t sure whether it was all fantasy or all for real. But, as that bloody Anita Sundström had said, they couldn’t take a chance on getting it wrong. He needed to give the commissioner the facts and decide on somewhere to put Roslyn for the next few days while they checked out his story. At least he had forced the name of Roslyn’s “Deep Throat” out of him, without resorting to throttling. The only problem was that Roslyn had no idea who this whistleblower’s real identity was – he had called himself “Henrik Larsson”, presumably after the famous footballer - or where he lived. He might not even live in Stockholm.

‘Chief Inspector!’

Moberg turned round and saw Klara Wallen clutching a piece of paper. ‘Yes?’ he growled.

Wallen flinched before nervously thrusting the paper in his direction. He snatched it from her and glanced over it. ‘That’s something.’

Wallen scuttled away before Moberg said anything else to her.

Moberg knocked on the commissioner’s door. ‘Come!’ came a call from the other side. He entered a far plusher office than his own. This was where the politicking took preference over proper policing. The commissioner was sitting behind his desk, which had the day’s newspapers strewn over it. ‘Ah, Erik, tell me that you’ve brought me some good news.’ He cast a hand over the newspapers. ‘This lot aren’t being very patient. They want results.’

‘Well, Commissioner, I have some good news and some bad news.’

The commissioner fiddled fretfully with his expensive watch.

Moberg held up the piece of paper Wallen had just given him. ‘Crabo, the stalker. He’s turned up. He’d gone north to visit his sister. His alibi checks, so we can rule him out.’

‘And the bad news?’

Anita was pleased that Lasse had rung. She had kicked off her shoes and was seeking solace in a glass of Rioja. Even though she was tired and troubled by the case, she could always relax when chatting with her son. They had a good relationship. They had had very few rows over the years, and most of them were caused by her untidiness. Sometimes she felt that their roles were reversed and that Lasse was the mature one. He was far better at making decisions than she was. Above all, Lasse made her laugh. Björn always had until he made her cry more often. Not many males made her laugh these days. Too caught up with themselves, too Swedish.

‘How’s the investigation going, Mum?’

‘Not getting very far.’

‘The telly is full of it. I saw your boss the other night. He’s even fatter than when I last saw him.’

‘It hasn’t improved his temper, either.’

‘Is he giving you a hard time?’

‘No more than usual. I can handle him. It’s just that he doesn’t think that women should be involved in murder investigations. We should be doing traffic or child abuse cases. To him, murder is man’s world. Anyway, how’s student life?’

‘Good.’ There was a pause. There was always a pause when Lasse had something important to say. It was usually a request for money.

‘I’ve got a girlfriend.’

Anita tried to sound upbeat. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Rebecka.’

Was this the moment she had dreaded? She had always wondered how she would cope when Lasse found someone more important than herself. Would there be a feeling of rejection? Since Björn’s betrayal she had channelled her unconditional love into her relationship with Lasse. There may have been occasional visitors to her bed, but no one had been allowed to stay in her heart. She had worried that Lasse’s leaving home for the first time would loosen the umbilical cord that had linked them since his birth. Was her real fear that she would be left alone?

‘That’s a nice name. What does she study?’

‘Politics.’

‘Not politics! Haven’t we got enough politicians!’

‘Oh, Mum. She’s fun.’ There was another pause. ‘She’s special.’

‘I’m pleased,’ she lied.

‘You’ll really like her.’ He was almost too insistent, trying too hard to convince.

‘It’ll be lovely to meet her.’ She knew she would have a battle not to be too judgemental.

‘Mum, can I bring Rebecka down with me when I come down next?’

Anita’s heart sank. She had been so looking forward to spending some time alone with Lasse. Someone to talk to - she loved their cosy chats. Doing those things they enjoyed doing together. Now she would have to share him. She knew young love. It was all-consuming. He would only have eyes for this girl. It wouldn’t be the same. And she’d also have to make a real effort to tidy up the apartment.

‘Of course. But I might not be around too much if we’re still heavily involved in this case.’ She didn’t want to put him off but he might think twice about bringing his girlfriend if he thought she was busy.

‘I thought it would be over by then. The county commissioner was on the telly an hour or so ago and he said you had some strong leads.’

‘Dahlbeck’s an idiot. He’s just worried that he’ll get persecuted by the press. By sounding too positive he just piles more pressure on us.’

‘Don’t worry. If you’re busy, I can show Rebecka round Malmö. She’s never been before.’ It wasn’t the reaction she wanted to hear.

Afterwards, she chided herself for being so petty-minded. It was his life and she would make a positive effort to like the girl, even if she was awful. The Rioja bottle was more than half-empty. She poured another glass. She had more on her plate than Rebecka. She hadn’t known what to make of Roslyn’s story. It could be true – or he certainly believed what he had been told. No one really knew who was behind Olof Palme’s murder. An ultra-right-wing group within Säpo was as plausible as any other conspiracy theory. If it was true, then they really had their hands full. It might be twenty years since the assassination, but these people had been highly trained. That made them efficient, elusive and dangerous. The method of death and the deliberate positioning of the body would fit Roslyn’s theory. And he had seemed genuinely agitated. Of course, it could be that he was a very good actor and for some reason was pointing them in the wrong direction. There
was
an off-the-wall thought. No, it didn’t add up. Roslyn was in Stockholm anyway.

Yet why would Malin Lovgren get herself in a position to offer a professional killer a cup of tea? Anita was still sure that the murderer had been known to Lovgren. And where was the starfish pendant? If it was a professional hit, why bother removing the pendant from the murder scene? There had been no attempt to make it look like a burglary gone wrong. Had it been taken as a trophy? Or was it to be produced later as a warning to Roslyn if he decided to carry on with his controversial documentary?
We’ve got your wife’s pendant so we can do to you what we did to her.
Or was Roslyn the intended victim? Given what they had discovered about the glamorous couple, he must have had more enemies than she had. People seemed to like Malin. But Mick? Anita had a feeling that all was not what it seemed between the director and his supposed friend Strachan. Did that really matter, or was it worth digging a little deeper? She couldn’t make her mind up, so she drank some more wine.